Author: Suiren-chan
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Middle Earth has no sorrows the Undying Lands cannot heal, even if one is a hobbit, and a mortal. A story of endings and new beginnings…
Pairing: F/S
Warnings: WIP! There will be many parts to this story. Major ANGST but happy ending. General like the books, extended to slash later.
AN: This is a continuation on the story of Frodo and Sam after the quest and beyond the appendices that was never descriptive in the books and left unfinished in the movie. The time interpretation and life in Valinor is my own based on true information by Tolkien.
Disclaimer: Frodo and Sam belong to each other, and both belong to Tolkien. "Into the West" is a beautiful song by Annie Lennox, Howard Shore, and Fran Walsh.
PART 1 – THE END OF THE BEGINNING
The day was beautiful, simply gorgeous; an unrivaled summer morning in the Shire. The orchards were in bloom, the trees dripping with pink and white blossoms. The birds were nesting in the hazel thickets, chirping and singing to their hearts content. The older hobbits had started to sow the barley in the lower fields and their cheerful talk could be heard on the light breeze as it floated right up to the doorstep of Bag End. All this and more Frodo could see and hear as he tasted the first of his strawberries with cream.
The hobbit sat outside on a bench by his lovely garden as he savored the taste of the berries. He came out of his study to get some fresh air, as the windows were only a tease. However, now he wished to stay and watch the goings on past the hill and revel in the stillness that was much more different than his stuffy room. After being to so many exotic places, Frodo had thought for a moment that maybe he could change the smial to be more airy and whimsical, since thoughts of Rivendell and other such cities put him at ease.
Even so, thoughts of this nature eventually dispersed. Frodo had lived in this place as long as he could remember, yet the charm of its earthen beauty still touched his heart. Now more than ever, the Shire looked like the beautiful home from his memory that he could finally return to in mind and body. It was like Sam said, "Everything will soon be put to rights." And with many thanks to Sam, it was.
He needn't think on the stuff of tales anymore, for he'd been in one, and it was the greatest one ever –
Well, never written. At least, it wasn't finished yet. Frodo scooped the last of the sugared cream out of the bowl with his finger and bent his head in submission to the fact that he had procrastinated far too long that morning. Sam had been out planting trees and flowers since the crack of dawn light and here Frodo sat, with nothing to show of his morning's labors.
And it was laborious to write such a thing with nothing to go by except memory, but he would never admit that. His work was so little in relation to how Sam was aiding the Shire, but even still, Frodo knew it had to be done. If nothing else, Bilbo would have wanted him to write the continuation to his story.
Frodo got up to go inside and paused at the round, green door. The problem was that this wasn't a mere tale, it was a large part of Frodo's life and every word pained him like the prick of a needle, which was bound to get worse as he progressed toward the end. By the ending, Frodo had lost much of the memory of facts and only bore with him the pain and suffering –
But he wasn't there yet. He would deal with it when it came, which was why he didn't want to write, for the first time in his life. Reluctantly, Frodo opened the door, dropped his dish in the sink and disappeared into the study, vowing to not come out until supper or until his hand cramped, whichever occurred first.
Sam knocked hesitantly on the door to Frodo's study. There was a sound of rustling paper followed by a soft voice.
"Come in."
It had been quite a while since Sam had been in Mr. Bilbo's old study. He noticed that the big red journal Bilbo gave Frodo was laid out on the desk in front of the hobbit. He came in and placed a porcelain cup of hot tea on the desk with blueberries sprinkled on the saucer.
"They're ripe for the pickin'," Sam explained happily, and Frodo smiled. It was a weary smile, but good natured nonetheless. "Is it finished?" Sam couldn't help but wonder aloud as he leaned to look over Frodo's shoulder.
Frodo blushed for how much it wasn't finished and answered, "Not quite, Sam. Here, take a look." He opened the bindings past yellowed parchment to newer, whiter sheets filled with fresh black ink. Sam took a good look and marveled at the neatness of the gracefully looped letters, however, beyond the ink he noticed Frodo had gotten farther in the journey of the ring, almost to the part where they were taken as hostages by Faromir. This morning he had wracked his head for facts compiled from Merry and Pippin, and succeeded in writing events he hadn't even lived through, and Sam was amazed at that. But what would happen when he had to write about, say, the goings-on on the stairs? Those awful, filthy stairs. Sam couldn't write it, and that was a fact, but it would be torture for his dear Frodo.
"What are you thinking, Sam?" Frodo asked in little more than a whisper. Sam looked Frodo in the eyes and resolved that he could at least help him, help him as best he could, as he always had and always would.
"Are you comin' to dinner, dear?" Sam asked, trying not to show his worry.
"Of course," Frodo brightened at the topic of food, as he always did, "What did you prepare for tonight?"
Sam smiled and hugged Frodo around the neck from behind him. "Actually, Rosie's doin' the cookin' for tonight, so your guess is as good as mine."
Frodo pushed the empty plate away from him and leaned back in his chair. Dinner was wonderful – a huge helping of meat and potatoes with string bean casserole in a mushroom sauce, and of course, strawberry rhubarb pie from the ripe fruit from the orchards. Rosie's cooking surely rivaled Sam's, Frodo decided, but he supposed he was biased towards Sam's since he'd lived off it most of his life.
Everyone was stuffed and the three relaxed as nighttime peace reigned inside and outside the smial.
"Perhaps I ought to check on Ellie," Rosie said quietly, "Make sure she's still asleep."
"I'll check on her, Rosie," Frodo offered as he moved to get up, "You have her all night when she wakes up."
"Ah, you're just tryin' to get out of doin' the dishes," Sam spoke with a teasing grin. Frodo shook his head innocently and laughed his way to baby Elanor's crib. The room was dark and cool nighttime air gently breathed through the room. Even still, Frodo shut the window, so little Ellie wouldn't be cold.
Frodo stood and stared at the baby. Nothing so small had ever been housed in Bag End before, and Frodo was proud that he could see the day when new generations would grow up in his cherished home. He walked closer to the crib that was made by Sam's own hands and painted white and gold. Whoever said Sam had no poetic sense was sadly mistaken. "Pure and elegant," Sam had told him, "That's what my little girl will be."
It brought tears to Frodo's eyes, but then, Frodo knew he was overly sensitive about words and phrases.
After a few more moments, Frodo heard the soft footfalls of Sam and Rosie and knew it was time for him to go to bed too. The sun would bring another day of peace and joy, laughter, and maybe some accomplishments on the book.
Or maybe not. It was happening again – Frodo knew it, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He stumbled back to his room and shut the door in haste. Soon he would lose himself entirely; he knew this feeling all to well. What was the date? Oh, but that didn't seem to matter anymore – it had become more sporadic with time. As had his thoughts. Frodo couldn't think straight, complete sentences. He knew it was from the ring, but he shuddered to think about the object itself.
As he made his way to bed, Frodo felt like he was burning from the inside out, and yet he swore his blood ran cold as he broke out in a nightmarish sweat. His mind reeled as he leaned over to snuff out the candle, but as he did so, hateful visions of the past filled his head in the blackness of the room.
Frodo tried to sleep, but his eyes remained open as they clouded over in fear. Soon, he knew he wouldn't have any rationale left to his brain and he wouldn't know past from present. He would writhe in pain as if he were still the ringbearer, but really, he would always bear it. The hobbit stifled a cry as he slithered farther under the covers. He knew all too well that the scars would never heal, even after how many years it had been.
But no matter what happened, he could never tell Sam.